God Sent
by Kerink
Summary: Jeanne overhears a rather interesting conversation. France/Joan of Arc, HEAVILY implied France/England


First official Hetalia fanfic 8D

My RP doesn't count since it's not finished yet.

APH by Hidekaz Himaruya

Cross-posted at the Hetlaia community on LJ.

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It really was not proper for a girl of her age to be out at this time of night, but she just could not help herself. A seventeen year old, love-struck girl was not a very rare occurrence, and said seventeen year old, love-struck girl bringing the man she loved a plate of dinner she had made especially for him was another common occurrence, but for said girl to be sneaking out passed sun-set to go to the home of an unmarried man countless years older than she, why that was cause for a scandal.

What did she care though? The town could talk all it liked, spread all the rumors it wanted, she was Jeanne d'Arc and God had sent her to protect her homeland: the fact her homeland just happened to be a living, breathing human being was besides the point. Jeanne knew he had not a soul to take care of him: No servants--for they all fell head-over-heels just at the sight of him--no friends, and of course no family. He could cook, but Jeanne was not about to let her country fend for himself.

She smiled to herself, her heart fluttering at the very thought of him: the long golden hair tied up in a satin bow, that thick, seductive voice…he was an angel, that much she knew. Francis Bonnefoy, even his name made her melt. But she sighed, letting the thoughts go before they became too inappropriate--not that she had any knowledge with which to fill the thoughts. She knew Francis liked her, but did he love her? Did it matter? His people loved her and his leader loved her, so if he loved her, how was she to know if those thoughts were his or not?

It did not matter one bit, she concluded.

She was sent by God to take care of him and that was exactly what she was doing. God never said if it was to be on the battle-field alone so she figured she was allowed to stop by his home with a treat now and then and things would be squared away and filled under "busyness".

As she approached the home--not small enough to be that of a normal person's, not large enough to be that of a king's--she stopped. Outside the manor was a carriage baring a British flag. She grit her teeth, her hand diving into the pocket of her pants where she had placed the knife she had brought for protection, after all she had not forgotten she was in fact a girl. She waited in the shadows for a long moment before deciding it was safe: the carriage driver was asleep.

She crossed over, pushing open the gate and slipping in; being careful not to lose the dinner she had spent so much time making. She was fuming as she crossed the yard, making a beeline for the front door. How dare they? Who was so important that they thought they could just barge into Francis' house at all hours of the night? Not even the king, British or French, had the right to do so! Bothering Francis this late, the nerve!

Jeanne pushed open the door as quietly as she could considering her rage and the door's age, shutting it behind her. She could already hear the voices as the echoed around the house, bouncing off its grandeur, but from her distance they were hard to make out. She followed them, going deeper and deeper within before stopping before a slightly cracked door. Jeanne leant against the wall, looking inside.

There was a fire roaring within the fire place, the room glowing with its light. She saw France sitting in front of it, his arm around the back of the sofa. Before him stood the man she knew as England--Arthur Kirkland, rather--and she felt even more rage bubble within her as she watched him buttoning up his shirt and straightening himself, his hair more ruffled than usual. He looked more than annoyed.

"So what is with that girl?" he asked, pouting miserably.

"What girl, Angleterre?" France asked in return, sipping a glass of wine Jeanne had not noticed before. Just his voice seemed to pacify her anger.

England snapped his head over to look at France as he walked to a mirror hanging on the wall, France's eyes following him. He turned around, glaring now at France's reflection as he tried to fix his hair. "Don't you dare play ignorant with me; you know who I'm talking about. That God-sent wench of yours," it was obvious by his tone he did not think her God-sent.

France's eyes closed as he smiled into his glass. "Ah, you mean Jeanne?" he said, talking another sip. "Zer is nozing wiz 'er, Angleterre. She just anozer girl, anozer warrior."

England whipped around at that, stalking back over to his comrade. "Don't treat me like I'm stupid, France. I've seen the way you look at her and she you and the way she talks about you." France was silent. "This is just wonderful, isn't it? You're having a right laugh, always jerking me around. You should know better than this, France."

"Better zan what?" France said, his neck popping considering how quickly he turned to look at the blonde. "Zan to 'ave a woman fight for me? Are you just angry you are losing?"

"It isn't about that and you know it!" England interrupted. "France I swear, you're hurting yourself." He knew he had him when France looked away. "It isn't right, France. She's not like us, you can't feel like that."

"You do not know what it eez like, Angleterre," France said quietly.

England scoffed, snatching his coat off the back of couch. "I don't know what it's like to be in love, is that it?" He laughed a stupefied sort of laugh, jamming his arms into the velvet sleeves. "What do you call this then, hm? This-this sordid affair we've had for centuries? The-the late-night house calls and the-the…God are you really- Do you really think I don't understand forbidden love? My God you're an idiot. A true moron. A dolt it it's purest form."

Jeanne had to pull her head from the doorway as France turned to look at England, and it was good that she had for it allowed her to miss the hurt-filled look he gave him. She slide deeper into the shadows as England exited the room, stopping to call over his shoulder. "You can't have us both, France."

She heard a commotion from within the room and a second later France was up, chasing England down the darkened halls. "Wait," he called, "Angleterre, mon amour, wait, can we not talk about zees?"

"There's nothing to talk about," England said, jerking his arm from France's grasp. "She's a human and you're a nation. It isn't going to work no matter how hard you try. You will live so long as there is a human being willing to call himself a Frenchman and she will die no matter how hard you pray." England than gave France the nastiest glare he could muster, hurt and lust masked not entirely. "She will die one day, France, be it from old age or in the battle field. She will die and you will cry and I will laugh because you should have known better than to love one of them."

Francis could feel tears prickling in his eyes; his arms fell limply to his sides. "Artzer," he breathed quietly. As there was nothing more either could think to say, no words that could fix this mess of a relationship the two nations had, England turned and left, the door closing behind him. England, however, was not scared, he knew it would only be a matter of time before that lying wench fell and her spell was broken on his Francis, then the two men had the rest of forever to make up.

France stood there, eyes locked on the door. He heard the carriage pull away, and only then did he feel it was safe. He fell to his knees, holding his face in his hands as he let out a pained sob. He turned quickly as he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Jeanne!" he said, his face turning bright red. "Jeanne I--'ow-'ow much did you 'ear?" he felt his heart breaking even further. He could not bear to lose them both in one night.

"Everyzing," she said quietly. Her mind was racing yet at the same time felt as though it was only going at a snail's pace. "I thought nations had only as good of relations as their governments did," she said, trying to look at him, but finding herself unable. She set down the plate she had brought and sat at his side.

Francis sniffed, staring at the food. His eyes filled with more tears. "Zat is what we all thought. But, sometimes, we do zings zat 'ave nozing to do wiz politics."

Jeanne was quiet. Her hand moved from Francis' should to his hand, holding it tightly. "Do you really love me?" she breathed.

"Yes," he said, now looking at the side of her face so intently, willing England from his mind as best he could. "Yes Jeanne, yes. I am zo zorry about everyzing. I-I-" she looked at him and he was silent, looking away. "But 'e is right, mon cher ami, you will die, eventually."

"We will meet again in heaven?" she suggested, brushing a lock of hair from his face.

France smiled despite himself and shook his head slowly. "Non, I do not even know if I 'ave a soul with which to go." He could feel Jeanne's wide eyes looking into him and he shut his own. "Or what if, Heaven forbid, most Frenchmen go to hell? Does zat mean I go as well?"

"Don't you dare say zat!" Jeanne shouted, grabbing his face and forcing him to look at her. "God sent me to protect you because 'E loves you, Francis. You are an angel." She pet his cheek softly, looking at him, her entire being so full of love she could not help but lean over and kiss him. Just a peck, but God that peck said all it needed.

She fell into his arms, the nation holding her tightly. "I love you, Jeanne," he said, resting his cheek atop her head. "It does not matter you will die, we will be togezer until zen. I do not wish for France to fall, but when it does, we will be togezer in heaven too."

Jeanne clung to the man, her tears wetting the ruffled white shirt he wore. She could smell sex and wine on him. England. She cursed the man and the nation and everything to do with him as she held Francis, tightly, possessively in her arms. "I love you too, Francis," she said.

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Holy God this is the first Het thing I've wrote since sixth grade OTL


End file.
